


electric avenue

by oryx



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volkner goes on a few dates. Flint has an existential crisis. Jasmine is a tad overwhelmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	electric avenue

**Author's Note:**

> this'll probably never be finished but i've had this part sitting on my hard drive for ages  
> at this point it's just like "welp, might as well post what i have"  
> content warnings include: poor attempts at humor & flint being a dumbass

Lonnie and Preston are in the middle of what looks like a boredom-induced practice battle when he steps inside the gym. Lonnie glances over at the sound of the door opening and grins, calling an abrupt time-out, his Raichu halting mid-Quick Attack. He sidles over and holds out his hand for a fistbump, and Flint shifts around the bags he’s carrying in order to oblige him. (They both add an explosion afterwards.)

 

“Flint, my mannnn,” Lonnie drawls. “Haven’t seen you in like a week, dude. You get a girlfriend or somethin’? That’s what Champ magazine’s been saying.”

 

Flint laughs and rolls his eyes. “Shit, I wish,” he says. “I’ve just been busy with League stuff. No way in hell would I ever have time for a girlfriend. Not with _someone_ ,” and here he raises his voice so that it echoes through the gym, “taking up all my spare time. …Where is he, anyway? Dismantling something for no reason again?”

 

Lonnie nods and jabs a thumb downwards. Flint peers over the side of the walkway into the cluttered mechanical viscera of the gym. A shock of bright yellow hair is visible far below.

 

“I dunno how you do it, bro,” Lonnie mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can never tell what the boss man is thinking. Dude’s fuckin’ inscrutable. Yesterday he asked me to bring him a wrench, but when I asked what kind he just looked at me like I was the biggest dumbass in the world. Did the same thing to Zach last week. I think you’ve, like… _spoiled_ him or something. Expects everyone to be able to read his mind like you can.”

 

Flint laughs again, a tad sheepish this time. “Yeah… Sorry ‘bout that. He’s not always so good at the whole ‘communication’ thing. You want me to say something to him?”

 

“Nah, son.” Lonnie waves a dismissive hand. “‘S all good. That’s just who he is, yanno? He’s just on a different level than the rest of us. But maybe someday, with enough training, I too can be all psychic-like with the boss man.” He nods thoughtfully. “We could call it ‘reaching Flint-tier.’ Yeah. That’d be badass.”

 

“Geezus, Lonnie, hurry it up,” Preston shouts from the other side of the room. “I’m dyin’ of boredom over here. And Flint’s not here to talk to _your_ sorry ass!”

 

“Fuck you, Preston,” Lonnie yells back. He lifts a hand in parting to Flint and starts to make his way back to the arena. “Seriously, bro, why you gotta be such an impatient bag of dicks all time? This is why Destiny dumped you for that surfer dude. You ever tried, like… yoga or something? I hear that shit really mellows you out…”

 

Lonnie’s rambling spiel fades away as Flint begins his climb down the nearby ladder, the whir and clang of machinery filling his ears in its place. At the bottom he picks his way through a trail of nuts, bolts, and spare parts until he finds Volkner, crouched down and staring impassively at the inner workings of… something or other. Flint isn’t well-versed in this mechanical crap. He supposes he should’ve picked up on some of it over the years, but Volkner’s rambling explanations tend to go in one ear and out the other.

 

“Yo,” he says, crouching down next to his friend. “Brought some snacks. They had Feraligatrade at the convenience store, so obviously I had to buy some. Can you believe they still make this artificial shit? Coulda sworn it got discontinued. You want the red flavor or the blue flavor?”

 

Slowly, Volkner turns to look at him. There’s a smudge of what looks like motor oil on his cheek. His gaze is distant, detached in a way that usually means “I’m deep in thought” but seems somehow _off_ today. Most of the time Flint has a pretty good idea of what’s going on in his mind, but this particular expression is strangely unreadable.

 

“… Red,” he says finally, and Flint places the sugary beverage within his reach, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You okay, man? Feeling sick or something?”

 

“No.” There is a contemplative pause. “Can you get me a screwdriver?”

 

Flint sighs but does as asked anyhow, reaching over to rummage through the toolbox. When he presses the screwdriver (Phillips size 2) into his outstretched hand, Volkner stares down at it for a long, quiet moment.

 

“Seriously, dude, is something up? You lose a battle? Get shot down by a chick? … Oh god, don’t fucking tell me your _dad_ is in town. ‘Cause I am _not_ getting dragged along on another one of those ‘boating excursions.’ Hell to the naw.”

 

“No,” Volkner says again. “It’s nothing.”

 

Flint narrows his eyes. “It’s nothing” in Volkner-speak is a tricky one to parse. Sometimes he actually means it. Other times he embarks on weeklong benders in which he subsists mainly on energy bars and vodka, fires and rehires at least three assistants, and usually ends up rebuilding most of the gym from the ground up.

 

“Alright, whatever you say,” Flint mutters. He rearranges himself, then, sitting cross-legged on the uncomfortable metal grating with his back pressed up against Volkner’s. He can feel the heat of Volkner’s skin through the worn-thin material of his t-shirt. “I’ve got some good gossip from that fancy fundraiser thing Cynthia dragged us to. You wanna hear?”

 

“Not really,” Volkner says, a frown in his voice like he’s in the middle of examining some delicate wiring.

 

“Well too bad, ‘cause I’m gonna tell you anyway.” He promptly launches into a detailed account of the night in question, from Bertha “accidentally” up-ending her soup on the head of some pompous asshole to Lucian not realizing the punch was spiked and getting in a near-fistfight with someone who claimed to hate his favorite author.

 

“If they could in all good conscience ban the Elite Four from further events, I think they probably would,” he concludes. “So… all in all it was a pretty solid week, I guess. Beat a couple challengers, got blackmailed into attending a Combeekeeping class with Aaron.” He grimaces at the memory. “ _Bugs_ , dude. Doesn’t matter how cute they are; I’m no good with that shit. Anything interesting to report on your end?”

 

Volkner makes a noncommittal noise. “Same old, same old,” he mutters.

 

“…Seriously? Nothing at all?” Flint frowns. Volkner has his quiet days, but this… this is something else entirely. If anything, this reminds him of the days leading up to the Great Blackout Debacle of ’09. He shudders inwardly and hopes to god that’s not what they’re heading towards.

 

(As Volkner’s unofficial PR agent, he’s already got his work cut out for him without adding another _incident_ to the mix.)

 

.

 

.

 

He drops by Sunyshore again a few days later.

 

“Brought you some new wire cutters,” he says, handing Volkner the bag from the hardware store. “Noticed that yours were getting rusty.”

 

“…Oh,” Volkner says. He blinks down at the gift like it’s some kind of shocking surprise (like he doesn’t get things foisted on him by Flint on a weekly basis). “Thanks, but… I already got Forrest to buy a new pair for me.” He shrugs. “I guess having two is handy, though.”

 

Flint stares at him. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He plays back Volkner’s words in his mind, just to make sure he heard him correctly, and then spends the rest of his visit in a state of bewildered disbelief, barely listening when Lonnie asks if Cynthia is into “chill rocker dudes – not me, I mean, just, like, hypothetically.”

 

“Yeah, totally,” Flint murmurs, and only realizes what he answered ‘yes’ to hours later, when Lonnie texts him wondering if he gave Cynthia his number yet.

 

He texts back a dishonest ‘of course, bro’ and falls asleep to strange, anxious dreams that he doesn’t remember much of in the morning.

 

.

 

.

 

“I’m not really understanding the problem here,” Aaron says. He’s lying on the sofa, pressing buttons on a handheld video game system, giving Flint approximately fifteen percent of his attention (if not less). His Dustox – perched on top of his head like usual – honestly seems more interested in Flint’s story than Aaron is, judging by the rather unsettling stare it’s giving him. Goddamn _bugs_ , man.

 

“What do you mean, you don’t understand? Shit is going off the fucking rails, dude! Volkner _asked_ someone – presumably in a fairly polite manner – to buy a _specific_ item for him. This is just… I don’t even know what to say. Is there something in the water, you think? Has he been replaced by an android replica? Is this the End of Days??”

 

Aaron pauses his game and turns to look at him incredulously. “Yeah, I still have no idea what you’re on about. Shouldn’t you be glad that he’s finally relying on other people? Let his gym assistants handle the errands and shit. That is what he’s paying them for, you know. About time those slackers started earning their wages.”

 

“But that’s _my_ job,” Flint says, blurting it out without thinking. His voice sounds petulant even to his own ears. “I’m the one who’s supposed to fetch shit for him, because I’m the only one who understands him! He _needs_ me, okay? No one else gets him like I do! Without me he probably would’ve starved to death by now or keeled over from lack of sleep or, or – ”

 

Flint breaks off mid-sentence, realizing with dawning horror just how unhinged he sounds. Aaron’s game is forgotten entirely now, and he’s staring at him, wide-eyed and a bit wary. Even his Dustox looks somewhat taken aback.

 

“Holy hell,” he says. “That’s, uh… Wow. That’s codependent as _fuck_ , man.”

 

“Actually, ‘codependent’ would not be an accurate term to use in this situation,” Lucian says from the kitchen, and Flint and Aaron both jump. Nobody should walk as quietly as Lucian does; it’s just not natural. He leans around the corner and peers at them over the rim of his glasses. “But I would not deny that your relationship sounds a tad… unhealthy? And of course I am by no means a licensed medical professional. But I would strongly suggest reevaluating things at the very least. Perhaps establish some boundaries? Or decide exactly what it is you want from him. Since – and of course this is just my opinion – you seem to be desiring something more than just friendship.”

 

“Oh come the fuck on,” Flint mutters. “Not this BS again. That’s lies and slander, bro. You been reading the tabloids or something?”

 

Lucian raises an eyebrow. “You know very well that I don’t preoccupy myself with such low-brow garbage. The unspoken tensions in the relationship between Volkner and yourself are quite plainly visible to anyone with eyes, and construing said tensions as romantic is not exactly a stretch of the imagination. The assistance of a filthy gossip rag is hardly required.”

 

“Seriously, man,” Aaron says. He’s turned back to his game, frowning in concentration as he jabs at the buttons. “‘Just admit it: you want to bone your best friend. It’s cool. Really, it is. I’m sure as hell not gonna judge you.”

 

Flint glowers at him. “What – no! Geezus. I don’t want to _bone_ Volkner, alright?? Fuckin’ hell.”

 

“Now, now, what’s the old adage?” a voice says, and he glances up to see Bertha standing in the doorway, a sly smile curving her lips. “‘Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt’…?”

 

She laughs and winks at him, turning towards the training hall with her Quagsire trailing after her. Aaron is laughing quietly as well, and Flint buries his face in his hands; mutters “you guys are the fucking worst” and tries to ignore the weird little pangs of doubt in the back of his mind.

 

He _definitely_ does not want to bone Volkner. Who the hell says ‘bone,’ anyway? (People who are _wrong_ , that’s who.)

 

.

 

.

 

Volkner isn’t at the gym. That itself is fairly unusual – he likes to go out in the evening, sometimes, or in the early morning (if by some stroke of fate he’s awake), but the middle of the afternoon is a rare time for him to be wandering.

 

“And get this,” Destiny says, lowering her voice to a hushed murmur. “Zach claims he saw him at the beach like fifteen minutes ago. With a _girl_.”

 

That gets Flint’s attention.

 

“A girl?” he echoes. “Who?”

 

Destiny shrugs. “Zach didn’t recognize her. And he knows literally everyone under the age of thirty, so she’s gotta be an out-of-towner. Which is too bad, really.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Volkner could stand to get out more, but dating tourists is always a terrible idea.”

 

“Which… which beach was this?” Flint asks. His own voice sounds strangely distant.

 

“Um… I’m not really sure? I think Zach said it was near the lighthouse – hey, where are you going?? Flint, don’t you fucking dare crash Volkner’s date!”

 

“That’s a baseless accusation, Destiny,” Flint calls over his shoulder, already halfway to the door. “I would never dream of doing such a thing. But since you just put the idea in my head, I’m afraid it’s now inevitable.”

 

“You’re a poor excuse for a wingman,” she shouts, and he spends the entirety of the walk to the beach denying this. He is the _best_ wingman. That’s why he’s going. To provide support and assistance to his dear friend, who once attended a house party and, upon being propositioned by the smoking hot host, informed her that the electrical wiring in her kitchen seemed a bit faulty.

 

This, Flint thinks, is a man who desperately needs his help.

 

But when he arrives at the beach, expecting to see some kind of catastrophic social failure unfolding before him, he instead finds Volkner and his “friend” making sandcastles. Flint stops at the top of the dune and stares for a long moment. The girl – super cute, petite with long brown hair – seems to be _smiling_. Flint looks closer and good god, Volkner is smiling, too. Flint wonders, briefly, if he has stumbled into some kind of alternate bizarro dimension.

 

The girl glances up when he approaches and seems a bit startled by the presence of someone else (they are the only ones on the beach, after all; it’s overcast today, windy and not particularly warm). She quickly averts her eyes and stares down at her hands, like she’s trying to draw attention away from herself. Volkner notices her sudden discomfort and peers over his shoulder. His gaze darkens when he sees Flint.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

 

“What, a guy can’t take a walk on the beach?” Flint scowls. He crouches down next to Volkner and lowers his voice. “I’m here to help you out, man. Don’t want you fucking this one up like you fucked up with Natalie and Jenna and Rochelle and – ”

 

“I’m doing fine on my own, dumbass,” Volkner mutters. “Or at least I was til you came along. She’s really shy – doesn’t like to be around loud, obnoxious idiots – which is just one of several reasons why I’d rather not have _you_ here.”

 

“Oi! Who the hell are you calling – ”

 

“Umm,” a quiet voice says. “H-hello. Are you a friend of Volkner’s…?”

 

They both cease their whispering and look over at the girl, who is staring at them quizzically from over top the sandcastle.

 

“Ah… yeah. I guess you could say that. Name’s Flint. Nice to meet you.” He grins and reaches out a hand – she blinks at it hesitantly before shaking. Her fingers are slender and her skin is soft, dusted lightly with sand, and he feels like he might hurt her if he squeezes too tight.

 

“Flint?” she echoes. “You don’t mean…?” Her eyes go very wide. “Flint of the Sinnoh Elite Four?”

 

“Uh… yeah. That’s me. You anglin’ for an autograph or something?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Volkner makes a noise halfway between a groan and a plea for help.

 

“R-really? I’d love one!” the girl exclaims. “I’m a big fan of your battle style! I’ve listened to a bunch of your matches on the radio… You’re always so intense and passionate, and, and fiery!” She pauses, then, and abruptly turns a vivid shade of red. “I mean, of course you’re fiery, you’re a fire type specialist… Oh wow, th-that was silly of me to say. I, uh… Sorry. I’m not… that great… w-with words sometimes.” Her voice has gone so quiet that he has to lean in to hear her.

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he says. It’s fascinating to him, how conscious some people can be of the things they say. He just blurts out whatever nonsense is on his mind. “Honestly I’m kind of amazed that you actually want my autograph? I always offer but no one ever takes me up on it… Who should I make it out to?”

 

“Jasmine,” she says distantly, distracted as she rummages through the pockets of her sundress. When she glances up, her lips are curved into a rather adorable frown. “Oh, but… I don’t have a pen. Or paper. Or… anything, really. Do you?”

 

He stares at her for a moment before laughing. “Yeah, maybe the beach isn’t the best place for this,” he says with a grin. “I could write it in the sand for you, if you want – ”

 

It is then that her name finally catches up to him, and he pauses mid-sentence, taking in her hairstyle, her accent, the light hazel colour of her eyes. Recognition dawns on him suddenly.

 

“Wait, I know you!” he exclaims, jabbing a finger in Jasmine’s direction. “The Iron Maiden! From Johto!”

 

She blinks at him, taken aback. “I-Iron Maiden?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what Champ magazine was calling you. Pretty badass as far as nicknames go.” He elbows Volkner in the side. “Shit, man, why didn’t you tell me you were out on a date with the best steel-type trainer in the league?? Colour me impressed.”

 

Volkner rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something rude and uncalled for, but is cut off by a flustered noise from Jasmine.

 

“A d-date?” she stammers. Her face is once again beet red, and her voice has risen several octaves. “No, this – this isn’t a date!” Her embarrassment quickly turns to mortification when she looks at Volkner. “N-not that it would be a bad thing! If it were a date! That’s not… what I’m saying…”

 

She seems to give up, then, shoulders slumping as her words trail off into nothing. For a moment they all sit there in uncomfortable silence, and then Volkner sighs and stands up, brushing the sand from his jeans. He walks around the sandcastle – which by now is beginning to lose its shape – and extends a hand to Jasmine. She peers up at him nervously and hesitates before taking it. He lifts her to her feet so that they're standing close, barely an arm's length apart, in each other's space in that tentative way people do when something's only just beginning.

 

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “I know what you mean.” He reaches out with his free hand and pats her on the head awkwardly – any other day Flint would groan at his friend’s romantic incompetence, but in this moment he finds it almost charming, somehow – and her eyes go wide. This time when she blushes it seems to hold a different meaning.

 

“You said you wanted to go to the aquarium, right?” Volkner says. “Let’s go now. It’s closed today, but I know a guy who works there and he owes me a favor.”

 

“…O-oh. Alright. But…” Jasmine’s eyes dart in Flint’s direction.

 

“Forget about him,” Volkner says coolly. “He’s _not invited_.”

 

“Oi!” Flint exclaims, and receives quite possibly the most withering Volkner Glare of all time. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated exasperation (and frustration, Flint thinks, but maybe he’s just imagining things). Volkner turns away without another word, motioning for Jasmine to follow, and she lifts a nervous, apologetic hand in farewell before trailing after him.

 

Flint watches them walk away in open-mouthed astonishment. Dear god, Destiny was right. He _is_ a terrible wingman. And it seems the day he never expected to come has, in fact, arrived – the day Volkner of all people developed something akin to “game.” The two of them disappear over the crest of the dunes and Flint shakes his head in disbelief. Incredible. Incredible and depressing and kind of weirdly… painful, in a way he can’t explain. There's an ache in his chest that he can't quite place. He frowns and reaches a hand to his belt without meaning to, removing one of the pokeballs hanging there. His Flareon appears in a flash of red light.

 

“ _You_ still love me, right?” Flint asks. Flareon tilts his head to the side and yawns, then proceeds to start digging a hole in the sand, ignoring Flint completely.

 

Flint sighs and briefly considers renting a Staraptor to fly home.

 

(At the very least, his _grandpa_ is always happy to see him.)


End file.
